The Afterlife's Blessing
by Tidesinger
Summary: Set in the Chronicles of Blood and Stone series by Robert Newcomb, a commoner of unendowed blood named Falke Soletzi has his life destroyed in a single night. He sets out to rid his home nation of Eutracia of all traces of the evil Coven of Sorceresses.
1. Chapter 1

_**Prologue;**_

_**Survival**_

_And, in a time of dire need, one shall come forth who shall fight alongside the Jin'Sai, and become not only his loyal ally, but his trusted friend. Yet this one unendowed being shall serve a greater purpose, and be the pivot on which all shall turn._

_ -Page 935, Chapter Two of the Prophecies of the Tome_

Falke of the House of Soletzi threw himself at the winged creature, his shoulder slamming into its abdomen. His assault did nothing to what looked, to him, like a well built man with dark leathery wings.

He had heard some of them talking before his hiding place had been discovered, and they called themselves the Minions of Day and Night. And more than once, he had heard them mention the Second Mistress.

Falke didn't know who the Second Mistress was, or for that matter care. Right now he was too preoccupied with surviving the beasts that were pillaging Tammerland.

A gigantic hand grabbed his face, nails digging into his skin, twisted his head back until he was sure his neck would snap. Gritting his teeth, Falke tore himself free, the nails dragging fresh grooves through his face and causing him to cry out in pain. He quickly backed away, wiping away the blood that was running into his left eye.

Panting and bent double, Falke could feel every aching muscle, every sore limb, and the pain in his face was like fire. He watched the Minion carefully, unsure of what to do.

"Enough games." the Minion warrior hissed, drawing a serrated disk from his belt. Falke steeled himself, and then the Minion pulled back his arm and threw it. Falke barely twisted in time, the spinning blade missing his neck by a hairs breadth. But now he had his back to the warrior, and he spun on his heel to face him again.

It was too late. The warrior smashed into him, sending him sprawling down onto the cobblestones. Then he held his arm high, and the disc returned to his gloved hand with a metallic ring. He clipped it back onto his belt, and marched towards Falke.

"You're a nimble one, but that doesn't matter. Your death is guaranteed."

Falke tried to raise himself. Even on his hands and knees his head swam, and his left arm gave way entirely, causing him to stumble. His entire body screamed in protest at holding this position, but he forced himself to endure it.

"May the Afterlife damn you to whatever hell you spawned from." he gasped. The warrior laughed, and Falke felt anger stab his heart like never before.

Using reserves he didn't know he had, Falke forced himself to his feet. If he was to die today, he would die fighting.

"If you surrender I shall make your death painless and easy," snarled the Minion, regarding Falke confidently, "But if you make this difficult, I will see to it that you die slowly and painfully."

Falke said nothing, but stared hatefully into the monsters eyes. How many more of these creatures were ravaging the city? How many had died already? Even now, he could hear the screaming echoing throughout the streets.

And suddenly everything seemed clearer to him. The pain seemed far away, and he even let the blood run freely across his left eyelid. He suddenly had all the energy in the world, all the strength in the world, and the will to use it.

He darted forward. The warrior was prepared for that and swung his fist, but Falke had been ready for it and rolled underneath, grasping the serrated disc from the Minions belt loop and spinning with it in hand, not caring that the blade was cutting into his flesh. He brought the blade up against the warriors wings, cutting neatly through one of them and leaving a long gash in the other, and then he whipped around, his arm outstretched, and swung around the front of the monster and burying the circular blade into its throat.

And suddenly he was intensely aware of the pain in his hand, and he feel to the floor screaming with pain as the blade fell free of his hand, pulled back by the Minion as it fell to the floor.

Falke dropped to his knees, bright lights dancing across his vision. The world faded from view, and he fell sideways onto the cold, unforgiving stone.

Daylight made Falke open one of his eyes, and when he did he was hit by several sensations. First of all was the pain. It swept over him in a rush and caused him to cry out. His entire world was nothing but aches and pain for several long moments, but the abuse his body had suffered paled to the sudden fire that leapt across his face. His jaw wouldn't move, and blood had crusted over his closed eye. He couldn't open it.

Second of all was something that he would later call relief. He had survived, and killed the beast that had attacked him. But as he fought against the pain and looked to see the monster, he realised it wasn't nearby. Perhaps it had been picked up by it's comrades, and he'd been left for dead? Or perhaps some angry citizens had moved it, and who in the Afterlife knew what they had done with it? He realised he didn't care. He was alive. The sun was shining down on him.

Then he realised something was wrong. He couldn't feel his left hand.

Hardly daring to look, he twisted himself, ignoring the waves of pain that cascaded down his body, and brought his hand before his face. He had all of his fingers, but the cuts were deep. He wouldn't be able to use it again for some time, and here in the street the risk of infection was high. He'd have to find a doctor, if he could.

Thinking of his hand brought back memories of the weapon he had used to kill the Minion. It had been a circular saw sat on a hub, that, when thrown, returned to the sender like a boomerang. And that thick glove on the creatures left hand must have been padded when it had caught the weapon, or else he'd have severed the fingers from his own hand. But padded with what? What could be thick enough to stop that blade? Certainly not leather. His memory handed him something. A sound. A metallic ring. Perhaps the glove had been padded with lead? But that would make it incredibly heavy.

Thinking of the warriors physique, he doubted a lead glove would have proven to be a problem.

Forcing himself to his feet, and picking the crust from his eye with his uninjured hand, Falke looked out upon his home of twenty seasons of new life.

His heart fell.

Smoke curled thickly into the sky, and now that he was upright the stench of death grew thick in his nostrils, bringing him close to vomiting. He could hear from the streets nearby the sounds of wailing and, in the distance, screaming.

He limped forwards. It was the best he could do, and his body screamed in protest from even that. He gave in, leaning against one of the buildings, and sliding down so that he was sitting. Whatever willpower had forced him this far was ebbing. He laughed softly. This far, indeed. He'd moved about six paces.

Ignoring the sounds of suffering from every direction, he allowed the exhaustion to take over, and was asleep before he hit the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Part One;**_

_**Aftermath**_

Falke awoke to the sound of voices. Hazy, on the edge of his consciousness, the words meant nothing to him, just murmurs on the edge of his hearing. But, legible or not, they tugged his weary mind back into the waking world.

"He's awake."

Falke sat bolt upright, but cried out in pain as the muscles in his abdomen seemed to turn to fire. He gently settled himself back down, and looked around.

He was in a small room, and laid on a wooden litter with a bedding of hay. Several oil scones adorned the walls, giving the stone room a soft, inviting glow.

"What's your name, lad?"

Falke looked up into a woman's gnarled but not unkind face. She was perhaps sixty seasons of new life. Behind her stood a man of about the same age, and a younger woman of about his own age, maybe a little more.

"Falke. Falke of the House of Soltezi." he groaned. The effort of talking was taking its toll, "Where am I?"

"Soletzi, eh?" the old lady nodded meaningfully to the man, "Son of Onius? Yes, I thought so," she added as Falke nodded, "You look so much like your father. But anyway, you asked a question, and I shall answer."

"We're close to Bargainers Square, near Worths antique shop. I'm sure you know the one. But this is my house. We were fortunate enough to escape the monsters that ravaged the city." Her face darkened, "It would seem you were not so lucky. You've lost a lot of blood, and have been unconscious for two days. I'm not a healer, but I believe your hand will be spared, and even usable if you're fortunate."

"The creatures seem to have left the city, so if your after any revenge, you won't get it." said the man, speaking for the first time, "But we found this close to you," he held up the circular blade the Minion had thrown, "as well as some other odd trinkets throughout the city." His jaw hardened, "The city is ruined. Hundreds are dead, hundreds more are dying. The Directorate is no more, and the king was murdered by his own son!"

"But… hold on…" Falke managed to prop himself onto one of his elbows, "Why would Prince Tristan murder his father? To what end? The coronation ceremony was already underway, and he would be king right now. So for what reason would he throw that away and kill his father?"

"Everyone knows that bastard was a rebel. Was a handful for the Directorate and half the Royal Guard, always disappearing and turning up whenever he felt like."

Falke's brow knotted, "It doesn't make sense." he insisted, "But I'm too tired to argue. What are your names?"

"My name is Agatha," said the lady, "And this is my husband, Merrick, and our granddaughter Felicia."

"Agatha. My father has mentioned that name in the past." suddenly Falke's eyes went wide, "My father? And my mother? Are they alright?"

For a long moment nobody said anything, and to Falke that was answer enough. His throat tightened before Agatha laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Merrick opened his mouth to deliver the terrible news.

"Falke, your parents are dead."

It was amazing, thought Merrick, exactly how much destruction had been wrought in a single night. The entire Royal Guard was gone, the Directorate of Wizards dead, and the monarchy all but a memory.

Falke walked beside him, his leather boots echoing loudly on the cold cobblestones. He had been very withdrawn, not going outside or even speaking, for the last three days. His grief was a heavy burden upon him.

So when he had unexpectedly asked if he could accompany Merrick to buy some food, the old man had allowed it. The boy needed to see the city, and to see exactly what damage had been done.

Merrick carried a small belt knife, which he fingered nervously. Tammerland was lawless, now. The only thing that mattered anymore was Kisa. Cut-throats and thieves were the worst enemy now, and Merrick knew he would have to be careful.

The bodies of the dead had been cleared away, and for that he was grateful. However the pentangle, the sign of the Coven, was still painted on doors with blood. Walls still bore bloody handprints where victims had tried to escape their tormentors. Buildings stood still and empty, and some had been burnt to ashes. It saddened Merrick to see his once proud home in tatters.

"We're nearly there," he said. Falke merely nodded, "Be careful. Bargainers Square is a dangerous place now, especially for old men like me."

Saying nothing, Falke looked to the bladed disk that hung from his belt. He wasn't certain he could use it in a fight, but he had decided to take it with him. It was a way for him to scream wordless defiance to the creatures that had murdered his parents and destroyed his home. He wondered what the Minions of Day and Night called these weapons. The circular blade glinted in the sunlight as he regarded it carefully.

"I do wish you wouldn't keep staring at that thing, lad. It gives me the willies."

Falke managed a small smile, "I was just wondering what to call it. It has to have a name, as surely as a sword and a bow and an axe."

"Call it a ringblade, and have done with it. It's round, and it's a blade. Ringblade."

"Ringblade." murmured Falke, deciding he liked the sound of it, "Have you heard anything about those gloves I mentioned to you?"

"The lead lined ones? Of course I have. A few of those… Minions," he spat as he said the word, "were killed, and they were stripped of everything they wore and were burned outside the city. But they're heavy, those gloves, from what I hear. Doubt you'd be able to wear one, with your hand and all."

Falke considered this, "I see. And is there any way to make a custom glove, one that'd fit my hand?"

"I spoke to a blacksmith for you about that yesterday, and he said he'd give it a go for the right price. Ah, here we are."

They stopped by a small wagon which held a variety of foodstuffs. Vegetables, with meat and fish a little further along. Falke's stomach growled.

"So what exactly is 'the right price'?" he asked, picking up a small pot of honey that he'd spotted in the pile, "I don't have a lot, but I'm sure I could match his price for a glove."

"Don't be so sure, my boy," said Merrick, carefully examining a loaf of bread for weevils, "With no Royal Guard, people are setting their own prices all over the city. It wouldn't surprise me to hear that a loaf of bread like this one is four times the price it was last week."

Falke frowned, "One way or another, I need one of those gloves if I can ever use this thing."

"Why would you be wanting to use that thing, anyway? What's wrong with a sword, like most men, or knives, or a bow, or even a quarterstaff?"

"You could say it's my way of balancing the world out." said Falke, "Every one of those Minions I come across, I shall kill with the ringblade. Consider it getting even, if you will."

Merrick grunted, "Worthless revenge is more like it," he muttered, and then turned to the seller, "How much for three loaves?"

Falke turned away, put the honey back where he had found it, and tried to ignore the haggling between Merrick and the stall owner. Allowing his attention to wander, he looked out across the stricken city.

A man who was missing both of his legs was strapped to a small wooden box, and he used two wooden handles to propel himself along. With every movement the muscles in his arms would ripple. Falke imagined that the fellow would have to be very strong to be able to move with only his arms. Another glance showed him a woman missing an arm, and one side of her face bloodied and bruised. Another man limped along on one leg, using a stick as a crutch. And leaning against one of the shops, a young boy with a hand missing. Next to him was a girl wearing a tattered dress that was crusted with dried blood.

Looking around at all of the wounded, Falke realised exactly how lucky he had been. And it was right then that he decided that he wanted to do something, anything, to make the lives of his countrymen better.

What could he do? He had little money, no medical expertise, and he was alone. What could one man do to help hundreds of people?

That thought preyed on his mind as he and Merrick left Bargainers Square and headed for the old mans house.

From the shadows of one of the many alleyways that led away from Bargainers Square, a man wrapped in a black robe watched the old man and young fool who carried one of the Minion weapons.

Who was this boy to defy the might of the Coven? Carrying the weapon itself was an open insult, and one that would likely get him killed should the Minions of Day and Night see it. Killed slowly. And painfully.

What could be seen of the mans face suddenly showed the suggestion of a grim smile. This young man might well prove interesting, and perhaps even useful. The Afterlife willing, he wouldn't be killed before he could be initiated.

With a snap of his cloak, the man turned, and disappeared into the depths of the alley.


End file.
